Monday, October 31, 2005

A Memoir

So I signed up for Nanowrimo and November is gona go down in history as the month that this red haired dude typed word after word trying to come up with some sort of book of 50,000 words and 175 pages. But not just any book, a fucking memoir my friends because if it's not enough having me talking about me-me-me-me-me every day in this humble little blog, then an awesome memoir is just the next logical step. And seriously, is there anything out there other than me?

The story that I'm planning to tell is a true story. . . I know memoir=true story but you never know who bumps into this blog asking wtf is a memoir. It happened to this cool foreigner several years ago, to be more precise in 1999, and to be even more precise it happened in January '99 during the dead cold of winter. It happened in a foreign country, one that spreads from Asia all the way to Europe, and my friends the shit hit the fan back in those days in my world.

This is a clue
The question is not whether it is worth writing 50,000 words about that story, the question is if this red haired man is capable of such task. No need to mention that Englisch is not my mother tongue, a quick look a my posts may give you some clues on the way I butch the English grammar day in day out, but aren't literary agents and editors suppose to correct whatever mistakes you've done? Well, mine would do that whether they like it or not once this book is done.

So November is Nanowrimo month. . . and perhaps there wouldn't be many updates on my daily life that anyways has turned out very z z z z z z z z z z z z z lately. But the good thing of all this stupid idea is that if I don't find my "inner voice" and the memoir just don't make it for me, I can always delete the nanowrimo icon I've uploaded, get ride of this post, and go back to writing my wonderful daily life in the Bible Belt.

Only time would tell.

On Augusten Burroughs [Revisited]

Out of the four books that Augusten Burroughs has written, three of them are his memoirs. The first one [Running with Scissors] takes place when he's a little boy and goes all the way until he's around sixteen years old; The second one [Dry] is when he's in his twenties living in NYC and his struggle with alcohol, among other things. The last one [Magical Thinking] is a series of short stories that can be traced to his two previous books.


If you're planning to pick up his books, you should start in order, so that you can understand most of the things that he talks about. Even more so, there should be a disclaimer in Magical Thinking saying that in order to enjoy it, you have to read his two previous books before, and not the other way around as I did. Otherwise you'll end up thinking that it is a book that anyone could have written: some unconnected stories about a guy's life.

But Running and Dry are truly hilarious books. Crazy like no other memoir I've ever read, but written in a way that has you laughing and gasping every other page. Running is a more fun book to read and would give you an introduction of what this guy is up to. I'm not gona spoiled the book to anyone, but there's a part near the end of the book when he's with Natalie in a motel that had laughing out loud and I had to re-read it several times. Hilarious. Dry is a much more interesting book and he develops more his self [the character], and even though it gives you flashes of what his life had been up to that point, you should read Running first.

I would like to read a book about his years between Running and Dry, a big gap in his life, and which I believe would be filled with perhaps as much crazy and fun stuff as the other two.

After reading all his non-fiction books, I understand now why Magical was published: after the success of his two previous memoirs his agent should've called him telling him that he was hot, that people were buying his books like crazy and that it was a perfect timing to launch a new one. Mr. Burroughs should've told his agent that those books take time, that he cannot get one out of his sleeve, but due to the insistence of his agent and the prospect of selling quite a few thousand books he settle for a compilation of some of his stories. Not a bad idea, but they forgot to write a disclaimer in the cover.

Failure to comply with my advise, my dear friends, would lead you to write a review like this one.

Last Saturday

My favorite night of the year is Halloween night. Actually, is the Saturday before Halloween when all the clubs and discos, bars, karaokes, all you can eat buffets, pubs, and every single place you can think of throw a custom party; and as that day we all have to adjust our clocks, it gives us all one more hour to enjoy the night.

Last Saturday was my turn to be the Pizza Delivery Guy, with a little "extra bacon for you" [instead of a pizza, I had a dead baby pig in it]. I got me the whole Pizza Hut uniform from a friend including the thing that they put on top of the car when doing deliveries. . . The whole nine years.

This year I'd say it was a very nice night. . . at least what I remember of it. Which I'm embarrassed to confess is not much as the lights went out early into the night for me. I had a black out and most of the night I flew with my automatic pilot. And that little fact sucks because I don't know if I really had fun or end up acting just like a party clown.

We end up going to two different clubs that night and according to my friends, I was pretty normal, a bit "turbocharged" to put it in their own words, and at times seemed like "out of control", but they say that that's the way I act when I'm drunk. The difference is that I always remember what happened, who I talked to, the silly things that I did, all the flirting involved, some of the dancing, etc., etc. After a couple of days I always remember pretty much all the details of my night adventures, and if there's pictures involved, they kind of give me a perspective of the time, people and things that I did.

Not this time. And even more so, more than half the pictures I took I just don't remember'em at all. That shit is embarrassing: acting like if I was sixteen years old again? The rational explanation is that I was so looking forward to this day that I drank too much too fast, a very bad combination.

Yesterday I had one of the worse hangovers in recent memory. I managed to take a shower in the evening and moved my poor self to a coffee shop near my condo not really to have something but at least to go out for a while. My stomach was on strike after all the abuse that it sustained the previous night, and even though I don't remember it, I know that I end up wrapped around the chair of porcelain giving back to the community all what I drank.

Those girls at the coffee shop are super cool with me, and when one of them saw me barely holding myself together and with a pale shade of green in my face she recommended some hot tea, peppermint to be more exact. [note to self: you should drink more tea.]
Then this morning when I stopped again for another peppermint tea, one of the other girls came all the way from the back to ask me how I was feeling. "Better" -was my answer together with a very generous tip.

Halloween 2005 is going to go down in history as perhaps the last time that I abused my self so much. . . But certainly will not be the last time I put my custom on and head for the club!

Books 2005 - I did it!!!

A milestone I did it! I've reached and breached my reading goal for this year. Phew! A couple months ago those elusive eighteen points that I set as a north for this year seemed like a long shot, but a very fast and furious reading schedule together with lots of coffee [and no girl in my life] in this last months, allowed me to finish way ahead of time.

Just for the record I'd say that I started this year's reading with a right foot and I was on track up until around April. But then, someone came alone and it took me from there to August to finish "In Retrospect" -which by the way I end up paying a big fine in the library for it.

From August onwards my reading went through the roof; I'm just amazed how many pages I devoured. . . I guess I work better under pressure, and alone.

The year is not over, so I may even reach twenty points or maybe thirty! or who knows, perhaps frikking fifty! Whatever.

Here's the list: 21 books, 12 fiction and 9 non-fiction. Special thanks go to a very cute girl who recommended some of the non-fiction books, which I end up enjoying. . . seriously I did.

Books that I've read so far this year (18.15):

(0.50) HOLES - Louis Sachar
(1.35) PLAN OF ATTACK - Bob Woodward
(0.50) 1984 - George Orwell
(1.35) ABOUT FACE - James Mann
(0.50) THE LAST JUROR - John Grisham
(0.50) MEMORIA DE MIS PUTAS TRISTES - Gabo
(0.50) THE PARTNER - John Grisham
(0.50) THE BROKER - John Grisham
(1.35) IN RESTROSPECT - Robert S. McNamara
(0.50) NIGHTS IN RODANTHE - Nicholas Sparks
(1.35) BRAIN DROPPINGS - George Carlin
(0.50) SKINNY DEEP - Carl Hiaasen
(0.50) A WALK TO REMEMBER - Nicholas Sparks
(1.35) MAGICAL THINKING - Augusten Burroughs
(1.35) RECOVERING FROM MORTALITY - Deborah Cumming
(0.50) THE NOTEBOOK - Nicolas Sparks
(1.35) ON BULLSHIT - Harry G. Frankfurt
(0.50) THE RAINMAKER - John Grisham
(1.35) RUNNING WITH SCISSORS - Augusten Burroughs
(1.35) DRY - Augusten Burroughs
(0.50) BASKET CASE - Carl Hiaasen

Questions about those values in front of the books? Read here first and then here.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

I swear I'm never gona get drunk again. Almost ten pm and I'm still hungover? This is just ridiculous! Not to mention the fact that I don't remember taking nor posing for half the pictures that appeared in my digital camera. Dough on Vodka and Redbull, I had it with you two!

Saturday, October 29, 2005

Halloween!

Off to get drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrunk!
Off to ride Halloween's Party Wagon to wherever all the alcohol that I'm planning to drink would take me to!

Cheers!

Surgical Procedure

I went to the doctor several weeks ago because there was something wrong with my rotten self. The doctor told me what I had, gave me some medicines and said that if I wouldn't get better in five weeks, then I'd have to call him and he would do something else. Trial and error, very simple.

I did get better but I didn't get a 100%, so at the end of the sixth week I called him. He said that he was busy as hell trying to improve his golf skills, but that he could see me Friday October 29th: yesterday. He said that he would have to do a procedure on me.

So I got there on time and he took care of me on time as well, on time for a doctor at 4:00 PM: thirty five minutes later. He described the procedure to me: he would put some anesthesia, would slice me open and remove whatever he thought was necessary to get rid of the problem [I told him that if he needs to remove my Anaconda, he better makes sure I never wake up again]. Then he would stitch me up and I would be good to go.

I asked him about the chemo therapy and the radiations that would come after the surgery. I also remember hearing my self asking about the fate of my very hairy chest, and if I was gona end with as much hair as an egg. I also mentioned to him my concerns about my recovery in the Intense Care wing of the hospital and if he thought I would survive.

He advised me to find me another dealer because the one that I have right now "is selling you crap instead of crack", and he proceed to explain me for the fifth time that it was a very simple procedure, not a surgery, and that he was going to remove a tiny little something from my lower eye lid. I asked him if he could double the prescription for painkillers, once he was done, because physical pain and moi just "don't get alone very well". He pointed out, waiving a scalpel in his right hand, that this procedure would not require painkillers, not even an aspirin afterwards, and that actually he was considering whether to use anesthesia at all. . .

After my surgery yesterday, and when I was in terrible pain and with a patch in my eye, sitting in my condo, I spoke to a friend of mine who had been to another doctor, a real one, few days ago for some pain in her neck and got a ton of magic pills [painkillers]. I told her about my suffering and she said that if I couldn't sleep, she would hook me up with one of her magic pills, but only one, because she was planning to enjoy'em all. She even point out that she would give one only because "we're good friends", and no she wasn't going to sell me more, no matter how much I was willing to pay for it. I've never had one of those painkillers, but it sounds pretty interesting [and my friend sounds like an addict: "no! those are my pills!"].

I went to bed last night, planning to lie there for a while before calling her due to my pain and asking for something to ease my suffering, but I woke up this morning after more than ten hours of nice sleep and lots of crazy dreams. Dough on!

Maybe I could talk her tonight during our Halloween [the doctor said that it was ok to go drinking] celebrations to share some with me, at least for the hangover tomorrow. . .

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Olvidarte. . .?

Me temo que cada día que pasa,

es mas difícil

dejar de pensarte.

The Mother of All Spams

I got an e-mail in the account that I use for this blog with the good news that I've just won a "lump sum pay out of One Million Nine Hundred And Fifty Thousand United States Dollars (USD$1,950,000.00) in cash" (?!!).

This is the first time ever in my life that I win something, and I didn't even buy a ticket for it! Can you believe my good luck? Neither do I. According to the message, there was a random selection of e-mail addresses around the world, 2,50,000 to be more precise, and I won all that money in some sort of category.

There's quite a few instruction on how to begin my claim and some phone numbers, an e-mail address, a fax number and even a name, actually two names: the name of a claim agent and a Mrs. Whatever who is the Publicity Manager of that company. This thing must be true then!

But I just can't believe that people fall for this stuff; because there's plenty of hot blooded individuals who have skipped a heart beat after reading this e-mail thinking that they don't have to go to work tomorrow, that they're rich now. And even more dangerous than that are those who say: "well, I don't have anything to lose so I'm just gona give it a try". You just can't imagine how much you can lose by calling, giving your "winning code" and even disclosing your identity and God knows what else. Is not just that your bank account account could be filled with numbers, red numbers, like in negative numbers; but those spamers breath thanks to people who reply to their messages.

Spam can be easily deleted and forgotten, and I get one of those every once in a while in this account, no big deal. But what makes me mad is that when I opened my account, I saw that I had one new message in my inbox and I thought that someone, a real human being, had taken the time to write to me regarding my blog! I even thought for a second that it could have been a cute girl sending some kind words and some luv to light my path. . .

But it turned out to be a message saying that I am now a millionaire. What a bummer.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

We Had a Nice Lunch

We both had Chicken Burritos... but no beer this timeI've just had such a nice lunch with my sister's sister in law, who happens to live in NC, just minutes from my place. She's happily married, with three kids, a mortgage and everything in between. I really didn't want to see her today; but it was such a nice lunch and a nice conversation the one we had.

I even noticed that even though she's in her forties, she's very cute. . . Let me just say it one more time for you: She. Is. Very. Cute. No, we didn't end up having sex in the restaurant's restroom or inside her minivan -my car is too small for that-, but we had such a nice time, a good meal, and a pretty cool and relax conversation. Surprisingly I told her a lot about me and my plans and some of the things that are going on my life now-didn't mention this blog of course-, and she told me a lot about her. She even told me that she married her first husband only because she was pregnant, but that it lasted no more than a year. She'd been married to her second husband for almost ten years now, enjoys Ben&Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, anal sex, and playing ping-pong.

See, that's the reason why I haven't mentioned or given this blog's address to any of my friends or family. . . I'd be cut out of the family heir in the first twenty four hours. Anyway by now I'm sure there's only debts in that so called "heir", but a little something is better than a whole lot of nothing.

We had a nice lunch, that's all I wanted to say.

Monday, October 24, 2005

Those Late Phone Calls

When the phone rings at 2:45AM on a weekday, like it did last night, my natural reaction is to curse: "Sonofabitch!". And even though the Nokia tune of my cell phone erupting at that early hour would get me back to the world of the awake people in a split of a second, I usually don't pick it up.

Looks like my old NokiaMy rationality is that if it is extremely important, like a life or death situation, they'd call me right back again and as many times as necessary until I pick up the phone. At least that's what I would do. If is a wrong number, once they get the voice message, they'd figure out that they've just fucked up the sleep of someone somewhere and would never call back again.

If is a drunk friend, they'll always leave a message talking as loud as they can, like if my cell phone had one of those old answer machines where you can listen to the message as it is delivered. Or maybe I should say like in the movies, when the assassin has the knife ready to cut the jugular of his victim and a message from only God-knows-who either sent that very same killer in a rant of apologies, or in a killing spree that includes taxi drivers, homeless people, graveyard-shift prostitutes, police officers and whoever gets on the way until he's face to face with the author of the message who, of course, is the hero and ends up killing the killer and delivering a happy end to the story.

The other reason why I don't pick up the phone if it rings at that hour, is because I don't have my cell phone on my night table but on my desk, a few steps from my bed. I don't have an alarm clock, but use instead the alarm function in my old Nokia to wake up. If I had the cell phone on the night table, I'm sure one day I'd just turn it off and get back to sleep until someone at my office building notices my absence and calls. Which could easily be weeks. So if the phone rings, I'll have to jump out of bed, take a couple of steps, pick it up and answer it. Therefore the second-call rationality.

Let Jean-Francois sleep like the angel that he is Last night it rang until the voice message kicked in -which was like a frikking eternity. Then, maybe twenty seconds later it rang again and I fricked out. I thought that I either had to go and bail some friend out of jail again; or one of my cronies in the underworld was about to warn me that I better get my passport and the stack of one-hundred dollar bills hidden between the cracks of the wooden floor right away, and run like the wind because the Feds are heading my way.

But it was neither one, nor the other. When I picked up the phone with a sharp "Hello!", some guy on the other end of the line was like "Huh?". Keeping my cool I manage to ask who was calling just to get another "Huh" as reply. After another question that male who wrongly dialed my number (867-5309) was like "I hav' the wron' numr". But I was not going to let him off the hook just like that, not before I could squeeze some cursing into his brain: "Who the fuck are you calling motherfucker?!!". "Huh?" -was his last line.

Once I wake up and jump out of bed like that, is impossible for me to go back to sleep immediately. I usually have to lay down in bed for at least forty minutes to an hour, until my tired self takes over my pist-off self and I get back to sleep. But the worse thing is that once the alarm goes off in the morning, signaling that is time to have another wonderful day at the office surrounded by "Stepford Wives" type of co-workers, I'm feeling like if I had just helped myself into bed.

Making an already long Manic Monday, even longer.

Sunday, October 23, 2005

A Weekend of Teachings

Friday night turned out to be a complete disaster, a damn train wreak like those that so often happen during my weekend life here in the South. If that night is deleted from my mind a la Code 46 my life could go on without any problem whatsoever. Fridays are definitely not my best days to ride the Party Wagon™, I should've known that by now.

Saturdays in the other hand. . . are really not that different.

Friday looked like this: a train wreck So Saturday night everything was heading towards a catastrophe of epic dimensions again. My so-called "friends" where jumping from The Party Wagon to Hell and Beyond™ faster than rats from a sinking ship, can you believe those bloody rats?! Our original plans were being changed, altered and butchered by people with no clearance whatsoever on the subject matter and with no knowledge of what the fuck was going on. The very detailed scheduled putted together during the previous week by moi, was spinning out of control and heading towards the trash can. It actually end up in the trash can.

But more than looking like a train wreck, I'd say that Saturday night was starting to look and feel like a re-entry into the earth's atmosphere, head on, wearing only two drops of your favorite colone as protection. I swear I even started to feel my red hair in fire as I plunged earthwards into the depths of night life-reality and my friends rampant stupidity.

But the night is never as dark as right before dawn, my friends.

Even though I was behind the wheel of my little red car, I still managed to squeeze a Redbull Vodka and two lite beers into my system [It was either me driving and going to a club or seating in the back of a friend's car arguing where to go and where not to go until it was too late to go anywhere like last Friday]. Long story very short I ran into Veronica, a friend of mine who was with other four girls as or more drunk than her. Five very pretty, cool and drunk girls; what else can you ask for at around 2AM? But when girls start raining down, they just pour, and my friends and I end up meeting three more girls equally drunk but more down to business than those cute five. That wasn't an easy choice, but it was a very frikking obvious one: we left Veronica and her friends behind. . . [I already spoke to Veronica today in order beging the cleaning up of my behavior. Ugh. Did I ever mention how much I hate questions? I do, and she asked me a thousand of them.]

This time there's not gona be many details of what happened later that night, just a little reflection: It's incredible what two months can do to a nice boy like myself. I moved from being with a girl that resemble both physically and personality wise the cherry on top of the whipped cream, to dive into the barrel and almost scratch the bottom of it with that drunkard I got me yesterday.

And on top of it all this morning was the day that I was finally going to join the "Singles Group" in the church that my family in law has been inviting me to go to. That Singles Group turned out to be the shittiest shit I've ever been to. If those are the last singles on this planet, the earth can run out of human beings because there's no way I'm going to procreate with any of those girls. Rats or cockroaches can take over the planet, I could care less. And the Bible discussion is perhaps the most shallow and stupid shit I've ever been to [note to self: write a post about it].

And besides this girl I got me at the club got upset with me this morning when I told her that I was gona take her to pick up her car because "I had to go to church". Of course she laughed the first three times I told her, but by the fifth time she was like "you're fucking serious!". She told me that she'd wait for me at my condo, that she would sleep a bit more and then we could go and have lunch together. But there was no way I was gona leave that girl in my condo by herself; she could very well leave with one of my laptops under her arm without even saying good-bye or leaving a return address. I told you, I scratched the bottom of the barrel a couple times last night -and one more before I told her that "I had to go to church" this morning. Oh God Almighty, please send me a good girl before my poor soul gets lost for ever.

The teachings that I got out of this weekend is that I ain't going back to that church, or the singles group, or the Bible study or any of those events. I feel so out of context there; so hypocrite shaking hands, trying to smile and repeating all those "Amen" and singing those songs with no rhythm whatsoever; I felt so. . . not like a fish out of the water, but more like a human being submerged in water.

And another teaching is that the bar scene is certainly a bad place to meet someone, a nice girl, specially if you're not thinking with the head that you have on top of your shoulders but well, with something else.

Friday, October 21, 2005

The Party Wagon to Hell and Beyond!™

. . . would be leaving the station as soon as I hit Publish Post and step out of my condo.

I'll get back, when I get back!At the wheel of The Party Wagon to Hell and Beyond!™ would be this red haired foreigner and whoever wants to ride with him. . . It'll be fueled with plenty of alcohol (vodka and later on some Tequila shots) and flavored with a legal product that matches, very mildly though, the effects of amphetamines in the human body: Redbull! Such poison would hopefully turn cool (and shy) Jean-Francois into a hurricane on the dance floor, and would allow him to show one lucky lady all the stars in the whole frikking milky way!

First stop: the ABC for some cheap Volka.

Second stop: The grocery store for some Redbull I already have the Redbull!

Third Stop: My friends' apt to warm up engines -be careful not to burn the engine before even heading for the club.

Fourth stop: The sleaziest salsa dancing club in downtown.

Fifth and last Stop: The MoUThS of HELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Cheers!

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Conference Call

Holy crap! I forgot to do something that I should've done today! But now is waaaaaay too late and besides I've already emptied my first two Heineken of the night, which me4ans that I'm legally trashed to jump in my car and drive to certain place, and do that thing that I should've done instead of doing other things that I did. But whatever was done, well, is done, so tomorrow I'll take care of it. [hopefully my company's stock would not plunge earthwards due to *ugh* me].

Anyway, today was a very productive day over at the headquarters of the Stranger in Strange Land building in downtown Charlotte. I finally manage to make a 5-way conference call and not hang up on anyone while trying it. Subject of such important conference call: Halloween!!!!!

Which reminds me that I better move my ass to the costume place to find me one. I've been dressing as a Wealthy Catholic Nun for the last two years and it would be nice to get me a new one. Besides there was just too much stuff going on last year and some property damage involved for people to recognize not just my costume, but my reckless behavior again and brought some accounts receivable for me to settle.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Tired

Dead tired tonight. Would like to blog about a lot of things that have in my mind or that have happened to me in the last days (yeah, it's all about me! me! me!) but one of my eyes is already sleeping and the other one is yawning. And my usual inspiration that starts talking late in the evenings, has clearly left the room tonight.

I would pay my weight in gold or diamonds to have a camera the size of a mosquito that I could place anywhere in the world and know what people is doing. Not just people in general, I could care less about Tom and Katie, or Bratt and Angelina, but I'm talking about people I care about; people I care a lot about. What are they up to? Are they maybe blogging right now? Perhaps some are washing dishes, others are having a drink, watching a game, sitting in front of the television watching the daily novela, eating chocolates and breaking their diets, reading e-mails, putting groceries on the shelves, reading a nice book, dreaming, crying, laughing, talking to a wall, rescuing astray dogs, some may be on the phone talking to someone (or maybe no one), driving and singing the songs being played on the radio, downloading porn, at the gym burning some calories, at the office answering the phone, some of them could very easily be having lunch, others may be having breakfast, others are sleeping tight. Perhaps some are thinking about their cool red haired friend lost somewhere in the US. . .

I'm dead tired. . . can't you tell?

Does sugar expire?

I hope it doesn't. I never put sugar in my coffee, but this morning I went jogging and I needed some calories, and the only little sugar that I have in my condo dates back from about year and a half ago.

Well, I'm still alive. . . so at least it wasn't extremely toxic.

Monday, October 17, 2005

Tennis!

It was such a nice day today in the Bible Belt, that I contacted my friends to hit some tennis balls. I called three of them, thinking that only one would show up, but they all stood up for the challenge and we end up playing doubles.
I'm a serious player Check out my back hand
I've just realized that I own a lot of blue clothing: tee shirts, sweat shirts, shorts, caps, jumpers, etc. I looked like a blue prince on the tennis court this evening.

Struggling I'm just a shadow of what I was in the Tennis court
It was so sunny! And we decided that the team that was serving, just to make it more difficult, had to do it facing the sun!!!! It was very difficult indeed and we end up playing three sets. Luckily I was in the winning team -Yeahhh! [6-3, 3-6, 6-2]

The sun was right on the serving team's face! Check out what a beautiful day!
But I played like crap today. I broke my racket's strings few weeks back and I had to play with the spare racket of one of my friends. It reminded me of the racket I had when I was six years old. . . a piece of shit.

My cargo shorts... This is a Tennis ball
Of course we end up drinking few beers. . . Is there any other way to wrap up a tennis game with your friends?

Not Tequila shots this time

iDont iPod

I don't have an iPod, can you believe that? I'm a rare beast, I know; and not having an iPod this days is something you shouldn't say out loud. Some of my friends even have two iPods, an early version and a smaller one, or two mp3 players of different brand.

No more magazine covers please! But an iPod is just a particular brand of a flash-based mp3 player, and I do have an mp3 player. Is actually a CD player that reads mp3 files. It looks, weights and feels like a brick; and I'm sure I look like a dork for using it at the gym where I go to. Which by the way, that gym looks like a commercial for the Apple Store.

But that's me: I'm many months behind any new trend or fashion or gadget or whatever is hot these days. Or maybe I'm just years ahead of whatever new retro culture trend is about to pop up later this century.

But going back to the gym issue, where I haven't been in quite a looooong time, that's a place to do some exercise of course, but is mainly to meet people. That's why I never felt the urge to get me one of those gadgets, because then I'd be in my very own private universe, disconnected from everybody else and I couldn't talk to all those girls that approach me on regular bases due to my magnetic personality and good looks -yeah right, I only wish.

I've met only four people while going to the gym: one is the old lady that sits behind a computer by the entrance checking that the *beep* that produces the scanner means that you're not behind in your monthly payments; the other one was the instructor that gave me my first routine and that I never saw again, I'm sure he got fire because that routine was so shitty that I didn't even followed it that very first day. The third one is a guy who works there but that I knew before, nice dude but a fucking chatterbox [he never shuts up] so I always avoid him. And the fourth one was a petite blonde with short hair who forgot to re-charge her iPod one day and end up in the treadmill besides mine. Very nice girl, but she moved to Dallas shortly after that day.

I can say though, that I've improved my sign language techniques more than my abs while going to the gym, because everybody is listening to their music with their iPods so you have to use hand signs to ask them if they are ever planning to jump out of whatever machine they're using for God's sake so that I can use it!

But going back to the Ipod, it seems to me that everytime Apple launches a new version of their star product, all magazines and newspapers and mainstream news services give them front page like if they have just discovered hot water. But seriously, is just another frikking player! And even little tiny video players have been around for several months now, so what's the big fuss?!

Sunday, October 16, 2005

FIRE AND ICE by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction,
Ice is also great.
And would suffice.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Vod-quila Diving (3)

Sandra, that girl who once upon a time was my best friend ever, is now at the top of the list of people that I plainly hate. And has also the number one spot in my list of best girl friends, because I just love her like no one else. There's a very thin line between love and hate and we've crossed it over several times in the last couple days.

After that lame and stupid e-mail I found in my inbox, I sent her a handful of messages asking her that WTF was going on in her life and she answered me with more questions in one sentence e-mails.

Yesterday we end up talking on the phone. Five times. When I first called her she said that she couldn't talk because she was on her way to a "very important meeting". Well, I asked her "Is that fucking meeting more important than MY phone call?!". I should've known better because I taught her what to answer when faced with that very same question: "Is not, but is urgent." Later that day when she called me, guess what? I was in the middle of an extremely important meeting. "Don't tell me that that meeting is more important than us?! -she said. "This meeting" -I reply to her, "is extremely important and I'm in the middle of it! Bye." Take note of this new variation to your standard answers, bitch!

In the evening once I got home, I finally called her and when she picked up the receiver I went in a rant spree about her and our friendship and her stupid e-mail and how disappointed I was of her and what I thought was our friendship, which I really don't know if it ever really existed and are you really gona get married and why am I the last person on this fucking planet to know about it and without losing thrust I trashed her one more time and our so called "friendship". She hung up on me.

So is that how everything is going to end? Like if we were a couple of eight-year old kids that cover their ears and start yelling so that they cannot hear something they don't want to? Or we just close our eyes and pretend there's no one around? I thought we were grown ups.

I called her back again and asked her with very sweet words what was going on with her, why she hung up on me and if she wanted to talk to me after all or not. "Yeah, of course I want to talk to you Jean-Francois, but what happen is that. . ."
I hung up on her.

I had one more beer because I was fuming, and I didn't pick up her, er, thirteen or so phone calls? I'm a very calm dude on regular bases, and I either have good relations with people around me, drama-free, or I just don't waste my time and energy with people that can cause an storm in a glass of water. My relationships with friends and the few girlfriends I've had, have always been pleasant; this also includes my relationship with Sandra, not in vein I upgrade her to the very top of my list of love and friendship. And that crazy, once-upon-a-time-blonde, is still up there today. But just for the record I hate her.

I finally called her back and we started talking and placing blames and pointing fingers and questioning each other's loyalty and number of e-mails written and "how long did it take you to reply my e-mail, ah?", and why you haven't called in so many months, and "I didn't reply your e-mail because that was a joke forwarded to 67 people!", and we talked about friendship from a theoretical and philosophical point of view trying to make the other one feel like crap, and things heat up one more time and I hung up on her again (but placed the blame on "this cheap calling card that I got") and after we trashed, cursed and told each other how bad a friend the other was and after I even asked her if she was "smoking weed again" because she was "really losing it", we end up in a non-stop rant of I love you's, I miss you's and some more sweet cursing as only best friends can. Again, and this is only for purposes of the record, I hate her!

She is getting married indeed, and no, she's not pregnant.

And I hate to confess this, but she was able to push every single one of my buttons right where it hurts the most to me: friendship, loyalty, love and the alike. And she was an inch close to fuck up the entire control panel that holds those buttons: me!

Her explanation for not telling me, her very lame explanation, is that I haven't answered a handful of mails that she'd sent me in the last few months. I haven't answered them because technically those weren't e-mails, those where just one line messages asking me if I was alive, or asking if I was still using the same e-mail account I've been using for the last ten years, or (and this is no joke) if I was in Germany where my last girlfriend is at right now (?!). And she didn't wanted to write me an e-mail telling me about her marriage, she wanted to call me and tell me about it with all the possible details of it all. She said she'd lost my phone number (liar) and she was waiting for my reply to her one-line messages to tell me that she had something very important to say so that we could talk on the phone -I can't believe she's so stupid. She got together with other friends that I've also been neglecting for the last months and they all plot the message with the wedding invitation (which was real) to see if I would surface back to life.

I did surface but more in the form of a hungry shark, than like the cool guy that I usually am. Once again, and I say this only because I want to set the record straight: I hate her.

She's indeed getting married with some guy, and even though he never bought a lottery ticket in his life, he end up winning over one of the best girls ever to walk on this planet.

Aw my friends I'm so happy for her but at the same time so sad in knowing that she's not just changing her marital status, but that things between us are changing. We're best friends, but can't fully grasp the fact that my best girl friend is a married woman. I never rationally thought or made plans for us to be together again, but in the back of my mind, where all those crazy fantasies of flying to the International Space Station, or winning the lottery, or owning Playboy Magazine and all its assets one day and so on, there was that little tiny ray of light on us being together. A little candle burning deep inside my heart where we both could one day hold hands and walk towards the sunset, living and loving each other like we once did, happily ever after in a huge castle.

A castle where she'd have the largest room to reflect the size of her heart and our friendship, and I'd curl up together, in the master bedroom, with all those large breasted Playboy Playmates every-single-night - ha!

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Vodka Diving (2)

My best girl friend's name is Sandra and she lives in South America. It isn't wise to talk in absolute terms when it comes to friendships and relationships but if I ever had to choose a girl friend, she'd be the one to get the number one spot. But as per right now, I really don't know what to think, or say or do. I'm so fucking upset and mad and angry and sad, confuse, pist off and mad and very very mad with her. And I'm half way through a bottle of merlot and it ain't doing the trick.

I'm so upset with her that I could. . . well, I couldn't punch her or anything like that because a girl should not be touched not even with the petal of a rose, but I could very well chock her to dead. Drawn her in my bathtub and leave her there to rot. Even if my downstairs neighbor comes back again complaining about the volume of the music, she could very well be meeting God this very same night.

There's a long version and there's a short version of this story; there's also a PG-13 version and an R version of it: I'm going to give you them all.

I met Sandra in college, in South America, during our senior year. I don't know when or how or why but we became friends in the whole sense of the word. We studied together, went out, got drunk, went dancing, drinking and driving, happy houring, talking on the phone for hours, she told me about her, and I told her about me and everybody I knew. We exchange advises and experiences, got high and also got sky high; she would see purple elephants hovering above us and I would lie on the floor holding my stomach while laughing like crazy and seeing washing machines raining down all around us. She threw up on me one day, she carried me home seventy times while I was in a black out. She cried on my shoulder more times than I can remember due to all her boyfriends and she introduced me "prospects" on weekly bases. We got so close that we even slept together, I'm not talking about sex or kisses or anything like that, we slept in the same bed like only really truly best friends can.

One day something snapped inside me, I quit my job (which BTW I got it thanks to her), cashed my 401k and moved to Southern United States. Why? Three years later I still don't have an answer for that question, but I end up over here. Sometime along the way she flew to London to attend graduate school and lived there for a year. Time and distance is the worse poison that can ever be injected into a relationship because it ends up reducing it to an e-mail every now and then, perhaps for Christmas and Birthday if you're lucky, and that's what happened to us. I'd get a message from her once in a while and I'd reply few months later. She'd do the same.

In Autumn 2003 I got a phone call from her, she was heading back to South America early next year and had just broken up with her two-year boyfriend. She was in tears one more time and I manage to make her laugh and forget about that useless bastard at least for a while. I invited her to come to North Carolina and spend some time with me, like in the good old days. She agreed and I rushed to book her a flight and to make plans for us. Late January '04 an airplane carrying her touched down in La Guardia, and she spent the next six days sight seeing in NYC and Boston. The following Saturday morning she descended on an escalator into the luggage claim area at Charlotte International Airport. With flowers in one hand, chocolates in the other and a fresh haircut from Supercuts I hug her like you can only hug your best friend. We hugged and laughed like only best friends do. She was coming to stay three weeks and three days with me.

Later that evening, after eating half the entire menu of Friday's, I told her something that would become prophetic: "After three weeks and three days seeing each other every single day, I bet you we're gona end up either loving each other or hating each other". We laughed.

My roommate at that time saw what was coming and moved his ass out of the house and into his girlfriends condo for the next three weeks, giving us free reign of the house. Sandra and I hung out like the good old friends that we were, remembering our time in South America and talking endlessly about pretty much everything between hell and heaven. We would go to bed together and would sleep like the best friends we have always been, a good night kiss on the cheek, perhaps two, crawling up together. I'd take the blanket from her, and she'd elbow me in the ribs trying to get it back.

She was leaving on a Wednesday morning, and that last weekend we were going snow skiing in the NC mountains, planning to leave Charlotte on Friday. So Thursday we had a little party between the two of us, our Pre-Sky Party, just one more reason to get drunk. Can't remember what we started drinking, but at some point I had the great idea of doing some Tequila shots. We toast for her and for me, for us and for our friends, we even toast for my roommate and for giving us free reign of the house, and even gulped down shots for the CD player. At some point we end up in an argument that evolved into a fight: she wanted me to drink Tequila with salt and lime, but I refused to do that and she got upset. And because she got upset for such a stupid thing I also got upset, and then she got more upset and I got even more upset. She end up in one corner of the couch and I in the other, looking at opposite walls of the room and letting the music go wildly loud in the background.

Are we gona end up fighting for a fucking piece of lime? -I asked her. She's a complete spoiled brat and didn't answer me, she just wanted me to bite those stupid juiceless limes but I was not going to do it; not after all that drama for a stupid piece of lime.

After an eternity I slide over to her end of the couch and hug her. She kept looking to an empty corner and I hug her even tighter, giving her little kisses on the cheek. Words are just so fucking unnecessary most of the time. . .

We end up kissing right on that couch. . . and kissing and kissing and kissing like if there was no tomorrow. Little kisses first, more kisses, French kisses, a hell of a lot of French kisses and deep breaths; our hands busy feeling and discovering each other like kids on Christmas day. We kissed and touched one another with such frenziness and determination and warmth as only two lovers on a mission to melt the Artic ice sheet could. We went to bed that night as friends, best friends, and woke up the next morning as lovers: lovers, cronies, accomplices, partners in crime, comrades; but above all best friends, with the insight of sex. We gave to one another the gift of love that night, mixed with lust and served boiling hot.

If I ever have to choose one word to define my love life up to this point, it would be farewell.

Wednesday morning arrived and with it her flight back home. That very same day in the evening, Charlotte saw the worse snow storm in the last sixteen years causing all gas stations and grocery stores to run out of beer and milk, and all flights bound to and from Charlotte were grounded. At that time she was safely back in South America and I was stuck in Southern US.

Fastforward to yesterday when I got an e-mail from her, sent to a couple dozen people. There was nothing in the body of the message but an attachment: an invitation card to her wedding.

"Yeah, I can tell that you guys were such a good friends after all, ah?" -you'd be thinking.

Let me go back to this very same post and quote myself when I said that time and distance is the worse shit that can happen to any relationship between two human beings. She left more than a year and a half ago and we both went on with our lives after some very VERY fucking painful months of longingness and despair. We started writing and calling each other on daily bases, but if you've ever had to face the power of time and distance you'd know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, you don't know how much I envy you. Our relationship grew cold and the number of e-mails came tumbling down to one every few months, perhaps a Christmas and a birthday note, just like it had happened before. I was not planning in going back to South America and she wasn't planning to move to the US. Is just a matter of putting your feet on the ground after all and letting gravity do the rest.

Back to yesterday again and her e-mail; and fastforward to today and how fucking upset I am that she didn't call me or e-mail me telling me about it. I'm fuming that I got to know through a collective message copied to maybe even the security guard of her office building! After our kisses we didn't mention our relationships as open as we did before, but fuck we had something that I treasured and stored among the sweetest memories in my life; we were, or perhaps the right term is that we had been best friends for a very long period of our life, how the fuck am I not gona be upset about that lame and collective e-mail?!

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Vodka Diving

I have three personal e-mail accounts that I check every morning while sipping my coffee. Today I received an e-mail in one of them that I hope is a bad joke; really hope is nothing more than a prank.

I'll give you a clue: Marriage
Otherwise I'm gona dive into a bottle of Vodka never to surface back again.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Aging

Today right before lunch a guy that works in my floor asked me how old I was. I gave him my age minus one year -it really makes no difference one more or one less at this point in my life, but it usually takes me almost six months to realize that I already had a birthday, and like three more months to realize that one more birthday is looming on the horizon. I ain't no birthday boy my friends, as I stated in my previous post.

The thing is that this dude was like "no way!", and looked at me like if I had told him that I had been born in the International Space Station and brought to earth in a yellow school bus. "Then how fucking old do you think I am?" -I asked him, without the F word in the middle of course.

A yellow bus took me back to earth
He came up with a number FIVE years below the number of Christmas that I've spent -and some would say wasted- in this planet. FIVE! can you believe that? And I was wearing my tie and glasses which are suppose to make me look a bit wiser and mature (like a Nerd in other words).

Good thing he hasn't read this blog, otherwise he would think that I'm frikking nineteen and fresh out of high school!

Monday, October 10, 2005

A Special Meaning...?

What do you write in a "Happy Birthday" card? Well, happy birthday is not a bad idea after all considering that if you buy a "Happy Birthday" card is because that's what you mean. But if the "Happy Birthday" card already has a happy birthday splashed in it, then what do you write? You can always write again happy birthday in the card because it will be a hand-written happy birthday which in these days of e-cards, e-mails, phone sex and drive-through cups of coffee, it really weights a lot. But still, a printed Happy Birthday and a hand written happy birthday means pretty much the same: happy birthday. So, what to write?

Hand written Happy Birthday...I'm not a happy birthday type of guy: my parents always have to call me the day before to remind me of whoever birthday is coming with the next dawn, and even with that clue I've forgotten to call or to show up. My friends know that I can remember phone numbers, e-mail addresses, faces, pasta recipes, situations, apartment numbers, cocktail menus and where the car was parked but not happy birthdays. I just can't, I wasn't equipped with the happy birthday gene -yes, I do have ONE defect after all.

But there's a happy birthday in few days and I have to mail a little happy birthday card. I could always write an e-mail or send an e-card with a tired happy birthday on it, but as I am stuck with this good manners and I always think that I'm such a cool guy and blah blah blah, I have to live up to my own self-descriptions and move my ass to the nearest post office and get out of my pocket more cash than I was expecting to because is already too late and that happy birthday card has to do some traveling in order to reach whoever that card is going to reach [note to self: stop promising all birthday-related stuff bitch!].

But don't you think that when you receive a hand written happy birthday in a happy birthday card, it really has a very deep and special meaning? And even more special if it comes from a cool red-haired boy down in NC with whom you shared so many sweet kisses? Right, me either.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

National Novel Writing Month

November 1st marks the beginning of another National Novel Writing Month [nanowrimo], and I'm already nervous, anxious and struggling if I should commit my half-baked brain, tired back, arthritic fingers and very little free time to such a project. [what's is nanowrimo? how it works?]

In plain English you'll have 30 days, from November 1st to midnight November 30th, to write a 50,000 words [175 pages] novel. Well, NOVEL is a very big word for a 30-day mental diarrhea which is how it'd end up being. The objective is certainly not quality, but quantity. A brute force type of project; and yeah, a lot of brute force typing all that non-sense.

Why am I even talking about this?!
I read about it last year and at that time I thought that you either have to have just too much free time in your hands, or too few brain cells still alive to commit yourself to such a monstrosity. If I combine my almost daily posts in this rotten blog, with all the e-mails that I write to friends and family, plus all the e-mails I write at work, plus all the phone numbers I have to press-dial everyday, and on top of that add the many times that I type my debit card's pin number at the grocery store on daily basis, I couldn't even get anywhere close to scratch 1,666 words a day which is what you need to complete such novel.

Which makes me wonder what is really wrong with me these days to even consider singing up for it.

Knowing my cool self as good as I do, I know that I would start writing like crazy, like if there was no tomorrow, like if there was a pot of gold at the other end of that rainbow of rants that my novel would end up being, only to slow down and procrastinate for the next two weeks thinking that if I can do it tomorrow, then why do it today? Finally one day I'd wake up, hungover, and with just few days left to finish that "novel" I would glue myself to my laptop, an IV of coffee hanging from the ceiling and going straight to my jugular, trying miserable to fill page after page with rants, thoughts, ideas, complaints in some sort of plot, and even words in French and Spanish in order to type word number 50,001 seconds before midnight and claim victory once and for all in my life time. Needless to say IF I manage to finish, of course.

And the other thing is that I've never written fiction in my life, not one single little page. I've only written about me [me me me me me me me], which is anything but exiting. . . Wait a second; I could maybe write what happen to me in December '98 when I was detained by police men in China for getting into a fight with the owner of a Karaoke place; or how about the little week-long trouble I had in January '99 with the Russian authorities who thought that a guy with a South American passport could not be doing anything other than smuggling plutonium into their country [both stories are completely true my friends, I swear]. But then it wouldn't be a novel but a memoir. Hell even better: a non-fucking-fiction book!

Oh shit, I really don't want to think what I'm thinking right now because it sounds so easy and nice and enjoyable and even though I haven't written a single word it somehow seems so easy and attainable. No, seriously, I ain't gona waste all November in that. No. Period. What I really need is a girl to take care of, not a damn book-writing project. I mean, seriously, NO!

On Power

Power always sincerely, conscientiously, de tres boin Foi, believes itself right. Power always thinks it has a great soul and vast views, beyond the comprehension of the weak; and that it is doing God's service, when it is violating all his laws.

John Adams to Thomas Jefferson

Saturday, October 08, 2005

The Law of the Land

In the land of a-church-in-every-corner, it's against the law to sell alcohol before noon on Sundays. Even to buy a bottle of wine or a six pack in order to drink it later that day is against the law.

But if you pop up an ice cold one and drink it right before putting your best suit on and heading for the House of God to hear all the ways that lead you to hell, you ain't breaking no law whatsoever. Unless you get more than two drinks and the alcohol level on your blood surpasses that laughable minimum level that the local laws have established, you shouldn't worry about anything.

What's the difference between being late and very late? This post
Surprisingly enough it is against the law to run a red light in NC, but you'd never do time and wouldn't even get a slap on your hand if you don't know that green means go. [note to self: buy new honk for car. Last honk went belly up due to too much use warning people that green=go].

Got a phone call while driving? Want to call someone while heading home? Not a problema, pick it up or dial up and talk on, it isn't against the law to use your cell phone while driving. Smoking inside bars, clubs and restaurants? Hell yeah! Smok'em all! Here the law even encourages you to light a cancer stick and spread the misery as far as the smoke can fly. Rock on.

So why is it then, that there's not a single word about the health hazards of letting people work on a Saturday? Why isn't there, right below the no-alcohol-on-Sundays law, a paragraph stating that all office buildings should be lock down during weekends and not a single person be allowed to get in, God forbid doing some work. Shouldn't there be a law punishing employers who abused and torture -specially foreign- workers making them work on Saturdays?

I should run for office, man. I should. And change all those laws.

In the meantime I better run to my office building because I'm already late, very late, for some important meeting that of course is not as important as some precious hours of sleep.

Friday, October 07, 2005

I put my PICTURES where my POSTS are

A little follow up on a very important subject matter.
One of those mysteries of modern time.
A picture essay on restrooms,
Public restrooms.
And why you have to push the door to get in. . .
. . . but PULL it to get out!
WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY!
I tried to sneak into the door to the reader's right
But I have way too much hair on my chest
So I push open the left door and got in

I didn't have to touch anything to turn the lights on.
There was a movement sensor.
On the wall.
Below you can see my hot left leg
and my Dr. Marteens'
That's what I call
"a touchless flush"
Yeah, I also get amazed by technology these days


Of course I pee on my hands
Of course I did.
My ENORMOUS manhood is a difficult thing to handle
Seriously.
I mean, seriously.
And as I am such a good citizen,
I washed my hands.
Note how slick I am at using my little finger
And I also dried my hands.
Don't want anybody to think
that all that water dripping from my hands
is pee.
You DO have to worry about what people might think.
Specially if you don't know them.
And specially if they don't know you.



Too much caffeine.
Sorry about the picture.
But anyway
you ain't missing anything.
That's me
checking out
that my wind tossed hair
was in perfect place.

But why oh why!
For God's Sake
WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY! WHY!
Tell me. . . why the FUCK do you have to pull the door open?!
God Lord, why in hell!
WHY!


To the left of the reader
you can see that Jean-Francois
is such an Aristocratic fellow.
To the right of whoever has enough free time to read this
is my, and other drogidy, technique.
The Little Finger Technique®
Can you believe?
I forgot to take a picture
pulling the door open
with a paper towel.
As I usually do.
But why oh WHY brothers and sisters,
you have to push the door to get in
but PULL it to get the hell out of there?!

Thursday, October 06, 2005

I see little green people

George Bush went definitely nuts, completely loco this time around. And the sky, which was suppose to be the limit, was reached and breached with this new set of rants.

Now he's warning us on a "war on humanity" (!?).

Wonder what would all those little green men out there would think of all this. . .

You can read all this non-sense here and here via the BBC. Or wherever you want.

Oh man, I do have to confess it: my home page is the BBC World News, and once I opened few minutes ago and read the headline it just made me laugh out loud.

I'm actually starting to like this guy, monsieur Bush, he should get his own show on Comedy Central.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

D I N N E R

Nothing like a nice dinner with plenty of wine and a ton of stories about the people and the city where you grew up in. I just came back from Rose-Marie's, a friend of my mom and a super cool woman who always "keeps me in her prayers" -and who really knows how to cook and entertain guests.

I can and would eat anything but liver *ugh*There was her husband, her cute (but married) daughter, a very nice couple visiting from Miami (she's from my home town, he's from MEX), my cousin's fiance and of course my useless cousin. Her ultra-conservative son in law was working and couldn't make it. I don't want to be rude but my cousin is a shit head, I had to bury my eyes in the salmon a couple of times after some of his comments and I was like "dude, either follow the conversation or stuff your face with food". But he did neither one.

My cousin is getting married in November and a big chunk of his family is coming to town for the event. My parents and his parents are very close and very good friends, and I get alone very well with his brother, but not with this particular specimen. I guess if he could learn some good manners on the table, I would be able to digest him. But talking with a mouth full on the table and saying stupid things with no beginning and no end, no punch lines and no co-ordination whatsoever really takes me back several years when I seriously thought that I was adopted and not really part of the family. See, I have red hair but my parents don't, neither my sisters; and they were never able to produce a picture of myself as a newly born baby in the hospital, as opposed of dozens that they have from my both sisters. Fishy, very fishy my friends, but that's another story.

The couple that was at the dinner tonight was very nice. They live in Miami and are moving to SanFran next month (sweet!). She grew up in my home town and reminded me so much of the girls I grew up with and use to hang out with when I was a little kid. Brought a ton of great memories of those early years of my life, and made me miss her type. The type of girl that Rose-Marie was back in the days for sure, and that now that I see her with 60+ years I see the woman I would like to be with when I get that old -minus the whole "let's go to church" thing of course.

But whether is such a sweet girl like those back in my home town, or a Southern belle from the Bible Belt, or perhaps one of those awesome Euro-girls I've met along the way, the hard fact and the crude reality is that today is just me and this blog. Sad. Oh, and the four bottles of wine that we drank.
Off to dinner with a friend of my mom called Rose-Marie, her family and her ultra conservative son in law.

Can't wait for today's fight.

SUEÑOS

I was taking a shower and even though the water was steaming hot, I was feeling cold. I thought for a moment that the washing machine was on and therefore taking all the hot water, but it all made no sense.

From the bathroom I could see the window that goes into the outside hall and a shadow approaching my front door. After I heard the first knock I cut off the water and towel-dried myself as fast as possible. With the towel wrapped around my waist I went to see who the hell was bothering. I thought for a second that it could be my downstairs neighbor, but when I was about to grab the door knob, someone pushed the door open and stepped inside.

I stepped back in disbelieve; a purse was hanging from my left shoulder and with my right hand I was holding the wet towel to my waist.

A very annoying friend I use to have when I was in high school stepped into my condo and started greeting me and asking me more question than I had answers for. I just kept saying and thinking WTF was that guy doing here. Next thing I know my mom walks into my condo wearing blue jeans and white tennis shoes saying how exited she's to be here and that "we're gona have such a good time."

I remember rolling my eyes and thinking "not again please!".

Walking towards a big house. http://sarahshoughi.my-expressions.com/

Next thing I know I'm walking in a mall-style parking lot towards a big house, I'm bartending for some big party that is about to start. In my right hand I'm holding a zip lock bag with pickles and I'm wearing a white tuxedo shirt with black pants. Right before I start climbing the flight of steps towards the main door I remember that I should put some water in the bag otherwise the pickles are gona get too dry and the cocktails would not taste good.

There's some cars scattered around the lot and I identified the closest one as belonging to one of my co-workers. A dark blue piece of shit car which model and car company might have disappear long ago for a very good reason: that very same ugly car.

I do remember that one of the functions of the car is that it featured a faucet. I walk around it and I see it on one side, I open it and water shots inside the car all over the seats and the dashboard like a sprinkle. I tried to open the car in order to get water for the pickles but I can't. I get upset and open the faucet one more time seeing the water pour all over the inside of the car. I remember thinking "next time don't lock your car, bastard! Happy and wet ride home by the way!".

If I was already late, now I'm very late for the party. I'm still holding the zip lock bag with the pickles and run to my car where there's a small faucet. I drive an old Corvette and the rag top is rolled down. I open the glove compartment and there's a small plastic tube that resembles an IV hose with some sort of faucet at the end. I open the bag and place it right under the small faucet and let the water run.

The water is dirty as hell and I think that now the cocktails are certainly not going to taste any good. Maybe if I give them a seven or an eight count instead of the usual five count of liquor, the alcohol may kill whatever bad flavor or bacteria is in the pickles.

I shut down the glove compartment and turn towards the house, the sky looks blue and its sunny, but I know that is gona rain and I don't know how to operate the car's rag top. I'm extremely late now and I struggle what to do.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Right, Not Straight

How many triangles do you see?Today marks a milestone in my life. After more than a year of trying and trying and failing miserable I finally nail it. It wasn't an easy one my friends, specially for a non-math dude like me, but I finally got it, and got it fucking right!

My very dear and very few readers [drum roll please]: I nailed Caribou Coffee's trivia question today! YEAHHH!

The question was to name the three different kind of triangles that exist according to their angles. OK, I know, I know: you learn that in second grade if not before, but I fucking nail it and that's all that matters today.

And I deserve extra kudos because I learnt this in Spanish and had to translate it to English on the fly. And I got them right! The three type of triangles are: acute, every angle is less than 90 degrees; obtuse, one angle is greater than 90 degrees; and right, one angle is exactly 90 degrees.

In this last triangle I trip a little bit because I said "straight" which is the translation for "recto", the name of that triangle in Spanish, and the girl behind the counter said "right!" and I was like YEAH! I GOT IT! I GOT IT! and she was like "no, is right. The name of the last triangle is right, not straight".

But she was kind enough to give me the ten cents off that you get for getting the trivia question right -not straight.

Monday, October 03, 2005

On Haircuts and Lab Rats

To get a haircut is always an adventure and a source of suffering, hesitation, anxiety and procrastination for me. I always try to talk myself into taking it easy and not worrying too much about it, but the truth is that I don't believe my very own baby talk on that particular matter. By the end of the third week after getting a haircut, I always start talking myself into making room in my already empty agenda to go and get my red hair mown, and I always end up showing up at the haircut place by the end of the sixth week. Which was *finally* today.

My once upon a time red hair is falling little by littleIt is a source of anxiety because my red hair has been falling off my head like leaves from a tree on a windy October afternoon. My once upon a time incredible amount of red hair is just a bad joke compared to the few hairs that still struggle to attach themselves to my ever less populated skull. To know that one day I'm gona end up like Kojak, or worse yet that I may let my hair grow in one side of my head so that I can comb it in a way that covers my shining head has me cursing to right and left. I suffer everytime I get a haircut because I see less and less hair, and that's the reason why I proscratinate for almost two weeks before showing up at Supercuts.

But I'd say the greatest source of anxiety are those people that work at Supercuts and that I refer to as "the scientists": always experimenting with your hair. Those who got straight Cs and perhaps a couple of Ds at the haircut school are the ones who end up asking me "so, how do you want it today?". Those people that got their diplomas in the mail after a long distance course of "Haircutting Made Very Easy" are the ones who end up working at Supercuts and taking care of my very few red hairs.

I was lucky for a period of almost one year, because I ran into a very nice and very talkative woman who grew up in South America, the land where I come from, and who became my very own personal hair dresser. She would greet me with a kiss on the cheek and would make whoever had been waiting for a haircut, wait longer because I was her cliente favorito. I would listen to all her stories, laugh with her, curse her lovers when it was time to curse them, and I would always ask her if she had lost weight since the last time because she looked "very nice". At that point I'd get my second kiss on the cheek and ten more minutes of stories, which started to focus more and more on how much she missed California and the life she had over there. It really doesn't take a genius to figure out that North Carolina, and particularly Charlotte, is just a hole in the wall compared to more lively and exiting cities around the country. And she discovered it within the first couple of months living here and knew that it was just a matter of time for her to head back west.

Time finally came for her to move out of the Bible Belt, heading westwards and not looking back, and leaving behind her cliente favorito in the hands of only God knows who.

Who's gona love me once I look like this?It's been almost seven weeks since the last time I saw her and I was in desperate need for a haircut, so I went to meet my fate today. It came in the form of a dude with gold teeth from NOLA and heavy limbs who had never seen a red-haired Latino before. He was very nice and talkative, but I believe he got more Ds than the rest of his peers in "Hair Mowing School" and for a moment I thought that he was gona charge me for the hour, because it took him almost sixty precious minutes of my time to leave me almost like a soldier and with a headache due to all the cutting and trimming that his heavy handed style allowed him to do.

I always gave Martha, my former hairdresser, a six dollar tip on top of the $13.95 that it usually costs. I always want to keep happy whoever has a pair of sharp scissors close to my brain, but I handed only two bucks to this guy as I don't expect to see him again. He's more suited to handle a fucking chainsaw and an axe than a comb and a pair of scissors.

I have documented extensively my experiences with Supercuts here here here and I've always vowed, haircut after haircut, that this was "the last fucking time I set foot in this damn place!". But in Charlotte you can either get a $13.95 haircut at Greatclips or Supercuts, or a $45 dollar one at one of the upscale places that have covered the city. I'm not a math person but the numbers are cry$tal clear to me.

Today that Russian Roulette that Supercuts is had a full load and had left me with more words for this post than hair in my head. . . and I swear this was the last fucking time I go to fucking Supercuts! You damn scientists go and practice on another lab rat because this one is fucking done with y'all!

$%@&@#!!!!!!!!!!

Saturday, October 01, 2005

... and beyond! (2)

Off to ride the party wagon to hell and beyond tonight!

yeah yeah yeah whatever. . .

Check out my cool *brand* new banner. sweet!